Respite

I write.

You wait.

The television plays.

The telephone rings.

The bathroom door opens, and closes, at your bidding.

And, when I’m finished, I yank the room, and my imagination, into darkness, with a single movement.

“I’m done!”

I listen, as I speak, for tell-tale signs of guilt I refuse to feel.

“Good!”

Your voice is buoyant, and your eyes, over glasses perched on the tip of your nose, welcoming, as you offer your arms.

Best Laid Plans

I rarely plan anything.

Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.

Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.

If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.

“What are you wearing?”

If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.

I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.

“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.

“Don’t fence me in…”

All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.

The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.

My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.

“Have you written up a workout plan?”

Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.

“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.

“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”

Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.

A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.

“So, what do you write about?”

Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.

Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.

“Have you written a mission statement?”

I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.

“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.

“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.

“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.

“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.

And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.

For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.

And, I never back down from a challenge…..

Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

Clarity

I expected more clarity.

I bought into the old adage, “With age comes wisdom.” I hung my hat on it. As I floundered through my teens and twenties, I quieted myself with the notion that one day everything would magically fall into place, and the world would make sense. One day, I would be the one who had been there and done that, who had seen what life had to offer, plucked the juiciest bits from her burgeoning tree, and secreted her lessons inside my apron pockets, so that all that showed of my experience was a smile of complacent serenity.

It didn’t happen that way.

As I’ve aged, I’ve realized that, no matter how much life I live, answered questions are quickly stored away to make room for new quandaries. Conquered challenges are afforded only a modicum of celebration before the next hurdle comes barreling into view, and there is always more to learn.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

Unmade

Last year, I bought my favorite watch of all time. A man’s watch, it features a large, thin face, thick, brown leather bands, and the word “Fossil”, prominently displayed at the top of the dial.

And, yet…

My life is a rushed blur of missed opportunities, rescheduled appointments, unfinished projects, and tasks that need doing.

There was a time in my life when accepting an invitation to go to a concert meant an evening filled. Now, the offer requires careful calendar manipulation, and the certainty of playing catch-up the following day.

A visit to the hair salon used to be a welcome distraction, breaking up a lazy Saturday afternoon. My last appointment was scheduled, with surgical precision, over a month in advance. I rescheduled twice.

There is a jigsaw puzzle on a table in my office. The box is displayed, prominently, as an aid in connecting the pieces, which lay in a misshapen mound in front of it. Beside the table is an easel, bearing the weight of an unfinished canvas. If you squint, you can almost make out the image of wolves drinking from a stream.

The drawer in my wine cabinet is stuffed full of collected corks. I spent quite a bit of time searching for an appropriately-sized bulletin board on which to glue them. A friend finished hers last year. I saw it. It was cute, and I’m sure mine will be, too, when I get around to it. The glue gun is ready. I am not.

I have never “finished” the laundry. The pile is never-ending, growing faster than it shrinks.

My sewing box runneth over.

The hardwood floors, stripped of carpeting in hopes of easier maintenance, gather mounds of dusty dog hair in their corners, even as I sweep.

The pine trees, shading my house, weep brown needles faster than I can rake them.

I live life, as a perpetually unmade bed.

“Tryin’ To Get The Feelin’, Again”

I love Christmas.
I love the music, the colors, the lights, the smells, the sparkle.
I love children at Christmas; especially young children, who still carry the magic, and spread it, through the light that shines in their eyes on Christmas morning.
I love wrapping paper. One year, when I was greener than I am now, and much poorer, I fashioned wrapping paper from brown paper grocery bags, and a couple of potatoes carved into stamps. The result, when tied with red and green dyed raffia, was rustic and charming. Now, as I rifle through shelves of shiny pre-printed rolls, I prefer a thick, shiny paper that creases easily into nice sharp edges, as it covers a box.
I love Christmas baking. I do a lot of it, not just for our family, but also to give to friends, as gifts. To insure a reasonable amount of freshness, I usually start the evening of the twenty-first. Each night until the twenty-forth I cook three or four different decadent treats; storing them in canisters with sheets of waxed paper between each layer. No one is allowed to sample the goodies until our family get-together on Christmas Eve. And, I love Christmas Eve.

When my older children were very young, they complained, loudly, about the unfairness of their father and me attending holiday parties to which children were not invited. From their perch on the babysitter’s lap, they watched longingly as we left on a wave of sparkling holiday elegance. And, next morning, they plied me with questions about what we did at the party, and what kind of food was served. The actual event could, in no way, match their vivid imaginations; and I would occasionally embellish my story, as I passed out the treats I had secreted inside a gaily colored paper napkin, the night before.
I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I began throwing parties on Christmas Eve for my children; not children’s parties, but parties much like the ones their father and I attended, complete with real hors d’oeuvres and pretty beverages, minus the alcohol. They ate their food from Christmas china on tables covered with seasonal linens, and the candlelight danced in accompaniment to Christmas music which filled the background, softly. Most years saw several friends in attendance, as well, and, while I still brought goodies home, my children never again complained when we went to a party.
The tradition continues today. I began baking, grateful for my daughter’s help. And, when the M&M cookies refused to flatten, leaving me with something more in keeping with an M&M biscuit, it was nice to have someone to laugh with.

Christmas, this year, was a struggle. As Thanksgiving passed, I sought out the radio station playing non-stop Christmas music, and, as I always do, saved it in my presets. In years past, I listened every day to and from work. This year, I tuned my dial to this station just twice, when my son and I were out, Christmas shopping. All the songs sounded the same. There was nothing new; nothing interesting. My commute was fueled, instead, by a favorite CD or Sirius.
Most of my shopping was done online. This is nothing new, though, my approach to it was. I didn’t so much shop, as purchase, having decided on my gifts, in a very matter-of-fact way, much earlier. This proved very efficient, but much less enjoyable. In years past, as the boxes arrived, I took much pleasure from slicing them open to view what was inside. This year, the boxes remained sealed until time came to wrap them.
The day after Thanksgiving is always set aside for Christmas decorating. This year I hung the last wreath three days later. The crèche never made it out of the box, and the garland that usually drapes the fence lay, unlit, on top of a box in my garage.

I strapped on my apron on the December twenty-second, and made all our favorites, but much less of them.
Our Christmas Eve party started, as always, as 6:00 pm. In years past, as the evening wore on, I found myself tired, and looking forward to clean-up, and bed. This year, the house was quiet by 8:00, and I ended the evening with a movie on pay-per-view.
A couple of weeks ago, as I sat alone in my office, I thought about my struggle to feel Christmas. After several minutes of soul searching, I finally decided that the culprit was my commitment to frugality, in deference to a fragile economy. My decision to reign in my expenses had taken all the fun out of the holiday. Choosing Christmas gifts had become a question of money, rather than the receiver’s delight. Holiday cooking became a chore to be completed, rather than an experiment of gastronomic pleasure. My lack of spirit was evidenced by decorations that never left their boxes.
My husband, and I, used to argue about when to take down the decorations. I felt they added sparkle to New Year’s celebrations. He subscribed to an old adage, holding that Christmas decorations, lasting until the New Year, brought bad luck. We quibbled for years, and usually got them down just before the ball began to drop.
Today is December twenty-eighth, and my house is free of Christmas debris. For whatever reason, the spirit never quite arrived, and the remnants of it were just a reminder of what never was. I am not happy in the realization that money has come to play such a large part in my enjoyment of the holiday, and hope to change that in the coming year. I’ll start by saving brown paper grocery bags…

Eleven

“Mom?” About three feet behind me, he begins to trot, in an effort to catch up. The movement, in the corner of my eye, reminds me of so many seasons of football and the characteristic way he exits the field.
“Mom, you’re lucky you’re a girl, you know that, right?” Extra effort pillows his words in gusty breaths.
“Well, I think so.” I turn and smile at him as he reaches my side.
“You want to know why?” He puffs, as we climb the cement incline leading to the book store.
“Why?” I stow my keys and check for my wallet.
“’Cause at school? All the girls have like lots of presents and stuff. I mean, they open their lockers, and there’s just all this STUFF in there, and they’re always giving each other presents, and guys just don’t do that, you know?” The extra effort required to breathe doesn’t slow his characteristically swift speech pattern.
We reach the door, which he hurries to open.
“Yeah.” I answer thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Come to think of it, guys don’t really give each other a lot of presents do they?”
“So see?”
He pushes his point home, as a coffee table book featuring a shiny, red, vintage car catches his attention.
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.”
The last word disappears between the pages.

“Mom?”
I insert one finger into the loamy soil supporting a prized cactus before lifting the watering can.
“Yes?” I watch the pot fill.
“Would you still love me if I was gay?”
I remember to take a breath, before continuing my perusal of the plant.
“Sure, honey. You know, there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I love you.”
“What if I was?”
I breathe again, lower the can, and turn.
“What if you were?”
“I mean…how would I know?” He watches his feet as he shuffles them against indoor/outdoor carpeting.
“Well, it’s a little early….” I clear my throat before continuing in my best educational voice.
“You know, I believe that a gay person is born gay. Gay is not something you become; it is something you are.”
I pause, hoping for absorption.
“It’s like having brown hair, or blue eyes. You don’t choose it; you ARE it. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“Would you wonder if I would love you if you had blonde hair?” I search his face for his eyes, which he finally turns to me.
“No.” The word is quiet.
“It’s the same thing.”
We both breathe.
“And, its way too early for you to worry about that now, you know.” I force casualness into my words as I move to refill the watering can.
“Yeah.” Relief adds color to his words and a spring to his step. “I’m gonna go shoot hoops.”

“I didn’t have a great day.” I hear his feet as they crunch against the pavement.
“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re feeling bad?” I walk to the lobby to better our connection, and my chances for privacy.
“This guy kinda picked on me today. See? We were at the lockers, and, he was like saying all these racist things, like calling me “white boy”, and he like shoved me against the locker, and I was like “Stop!”, but he just kept on. I mean, it didn’t really hurt.”
“Well, it kinda hurt. And, these black girls where there, and, they were like laughing. And then he was like hitting my face. I mean, not really hitting, you know. Just kinda like punching at my face. And, I could feel it turning red. And, I was like “Stop!”. And, everybody thought I was like embarrassed, but I was just really wanting to hit him, but I knew if I did I would get in trouble, and you would be disappointed, so, yeah…I didn’t hit him.”
A canine welcome played in the background as he entered the house, and I pictured his face; lowered, with bright spots of color in his cheeks.
“Did you tell the teacher?” I asked, hopefully.
“No.”
His book-bag hit the floor with a crash, unsettling a kitchen chair. “She wouldn’t DO anything.” Dejection flowed over his words.
“But, you have to tell her, Shane.” I pause, deciding to take the conversation outside. “If you don’t tell her, I can’t do anything. Because if I go to her, and tell her about this, her first response will be, “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”. Do you get that?”
“Yes.” He says the word, but doesn’t feel it.
“So, you have to tell her.”
“It won’t do any good, Mom…It’s ok. He didn’t hurt me.”
The sound of hinges squeaking tells me he is at the back door.
He fills my pause.
“Well, it kinda hurts; just where his knuckle hit my chin.”
I picture his hand rubbing the spot.

A pure, white-hot flame of injustice combusts in my chest, as I listen to my child relate a story of racism perpetrated against a child who has never seen color; who, until the age of nine, referred to all African-American people as brown; because they were. My mind fills with all the things I would say to his perpetrator were I to run into him on the street. I picture my hand on his collar, and the look of terror in his pre-pubescent face. I feel the satisfaction of eliciting fear; before I stop.

There are so many things I want to tell him….starting with;
“You’re not alone…Look around! Everyone you see feels just like you, at least some of the time. It’s who you are! It’s where you are supposed to be!”
“And, it is temporary.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel like a person, again. I know you don’t believe this, but I promise; it WILL happen.”
“I’ve been there, and I got through it. I raised three before you. They all got through it. We all do!”
“You are an amazingly intelligent, outrageously witty, deeply thinking, strikingly handsome boy! You have everything going for you, and the only thing stopping you, is you.”
“And…when you feel like you can’t go on. When it’s too much…when there’s no way out…when you feel bad, and you just want to cry…”
“You can. You can cry. Its okay to cry. Go to your room and cry; and when you’re done, it’ll be better; maybe not right away, but it will. It will be better.”

And, I do. Clothed only in flannel pants, left-over shower droplets dot his shoulders as he lays, prone, upon the bed. Both arms crunch the pillow under his head as he watches the words flow from my mouth.
And, as I speak, a trace of a smile dances across the corners of his mouth before he remembers to hide it.
And, as we close, I move into the next room with his warning ringing in my ears.
“Ok…” Laughter tinges both syllables. “I’ll try it, but I’m telling you…if it doesn’t work….”

Kindred Spirits

Kim looked at him in the ambient lighting, over the rim of her wineglass. Sam’s lips parted, slightly, as he arched his neck to emit a sound the others would recognize as laughter. But then, they had probably never actually heard him laugh. How were they to know that the sound they heard was nothing more than a calculated response, meant to endear, to draw close, to inspire comfort; a social necessity practiced by a man dependent on their goodwill for his livelihood, and, thus, his sense of self?
She turned away, noticing the pained expression on a waiter’s face as a demanding diner thrust a wineglass in his direction; soiling white linen before dripping, sanguinely, on the young man’s carefully polished shoes.
He used to laugh. They used to laugh. They used to laugh all the time. She remembered the rumble of his Firebird as he pulled up outside her dorm room, and the way it reverberated in her chest before her heart jumped. She ran for the window, parting the blinds with one hand, while placing the other over her chest to still it. Minutes felt like hours, as she waited for him to emerge. She had memorized each movement he would make, and never tired of watching, as he slung first one, and then the other denim- covered leg behind the yawning car door. As he stood, he turned, taking a quick survey of the parking lot. She used to wonder what he was looking for. Apparently satisfied with his surroundings, he ran one hand through his stylishly shaggy, brown hair as he shoved the door shut with the other. His keys were tossed, just once, into the air in front of him, before he pocketed them, taking the curb with a slight jump, before falling into his usual long strides on the way to her door.

He had convinced her, once again, to skip class for a day at the lake. And, as he neared the door, she left the window and hurriedly gathered her carefully packed bag and a sweater she would need after the sun had fallen. She wouldn’t be back until long after sunset.
She felt Carmen’s fingers on her elbow, breaking her reverie.
“Tell me!”, was all she said.
Kim looked down at the manicure on her arm before looking up at her friend, in question.
“What?”
“You should see the look on your face!” Carmen whispered behind a carefully painted smirk. “Who is he?”
Several conflicting thoughts bounced around inside Kim’s head as she struggled to form an acceptable answer. It wasn’t lost on her that Carmen assumed her preoccupation was with a man other than her husband. She realized, too, that her friend’s attitude was one of acceptance, even delight.
“No…”, she managed as she wondered if her friend was hoping for an opportunity to share her own indiscretions. “I mean…” She stopped, as a linen-swaddled wine bottle split the two women, and raised a grateful smile to the pouring waiter.
Hoping to avoid further conversation with Carmen, she looked across the table at Sam, wishing as she did, that he would feel her gaze, and something more. She studied his face as he inclined his head slightly in the direction of the man sitting beside him. A frown crossed his features as his unseeing eyes studied a spot in the center of the china-strewn table. She willed him to look at her; to see her, to remember the times before she was a necessary business accessory, an ornament. His mouth formed slow, thoughtful words that distance prevented her from hearing, and she turned her gaze to the other man. His eyes, over the slight curve of a knowing smile, bore into hers before moving lower. She instinctively brought one perfectly manicured hand to her neckline, grazing, with one fingernail, the diamond pendant Sam had presented her on their tenth anniversary, and scanned the group, wondering which of the impeccably accessorized women was his wife; her kindred spirit.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Seven-Revisions

Day seven of the Seven Day Mental Diet, and, I’ve learned some things:

I’ve learned that being, and remaining, in a positive frame of mind requires work and attention.

Accordingly, I’ve learned that the course, when darkened, can be corrected with relative ease, when aware of your thoughts.

I’ve remembered that, with effort, there is almost always something positive to be found in any situation, and that there is merit in the search, as there are benefits to everyone involved.

I am reminded of the freedom inherent in experiencing real feelings, and in welcoming the journey, and the lesson.

Over the course of the last week, I have cried a little more often, and I have whistled, gaily. I have looked for opportunities to praise and felt appreciation from those who must have wondered if I would ever notice…

I have remembered not to worry, in a time when there is much to worry about.

And, just as the author promised, on day seven, a positive outlook comes much more naturally to me than before this experiment.

The door opens on a blast of cold air,

and you.

A relative peace, tended by careful attention, endures.

You speak, I listen, as you share your appreciation of the warmth with which I surround myself.

And, this is how it is…today.